Nights with an infant stretched long, with nuanced and layered emotions. Some nights, the weight of exhaustion seemed unbearable. I wanted to crumple into the piles of laundry, to sink into a mountain of fabric as though it was a nest that would cradle my body so that I could rest. Instead, I sat and rocked my daughter back to sleep, her warm body on my chest, and I looked out the window to the full moon. My mind meandered through the glass, past my yard, traveling to the other mothers who sat under the same moon and nurtured their own little ones. In those quiet moments, I felt a thread of connection pulling taught between myself and mothers I’d never meet — bound not by place or even time but by love and nurturing.